


Nothing to Fear But the Truth

by thursdaysfallenangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11x10 The Devil in the Details, Angst, Casifer, Lucifer is inside Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdaysfallenangel/pseuds/thursdaysfallenangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finally realizes what's wrong with Cas, and Lucifer reveals things that were better left unsaid.</p><p>Continues after the events of 11x10 Devil in the Details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing to Fear But the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> For my Agents again. For Rachel because I told her I wanted to hurt her, for Meg because she is optimistic, for Jess because she asked for a fic of Cas hugs (there are no hugs here Jess), for Dawn because Casifer, and for Ari because Destiel is Real.
> 
> Enjoy my pain.

With all the shit they’ve been through, Dean really should be better at ignoring things by now. But he’s not. He still notices when Sam doesn’t throw his fucking beer bottles away, he still swears when he trips over someone’s shoes in the hallway, and he still notices when Cas is acting strange.

Cas is acting strange now. He’s been acting strange since they’d made it out of the cage. Cas had shown up to the bunker a few hours after he and Sam had, nodding vaguely to Dean’s greeting before heading to his room.

Dean doesn’t think Cas has said more than ten words to him. He’s not used to the angel not being constantly over his shoulder, reassuringly in sight. He doesn’t know what to think about it, what to do.

Sam only endures Dean’s (very subtle and completely justifiable) bitching for so long before snapping. “Why don’t you just talk to him Dean?” he asks, slamming his book shut and leaving the war room.

Except Dean and Cas don’t talk, especially not about how they’re feeling. They’re fucking soldiers, of course they’re not okay, and there’s no point in asking, in dragging the stuff deep inside them out into the open until you’re laid out bleeding, your heart completely held in someone else’s hands.

Dean can’t hand stuff like that over, especially not to Cas. So they don’t talk about feelings.

Doesn’t change the fact that he’s found himself in the doorway of Cas’ bedroom anyway, wrapping his knuckles on the doorjamb.

“Yes?” Cas says. He’s sitting on the bed, flipping idly through a book, and Dean takes that as his cue to move into the room. His gaze flicks to the blank TV and he frowns briefly. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in this room without the TV on.

Cas’ trench is flung over the chair in the corner, and he takes a brief moment to consider that anomaly too before speaking up.

“Hey,” Dean says, and he’s slightly mortified at how rough his voice comes out. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey. Can we talk?”

Cas glances up, eyes flashing with something Dean can’t read before he nods and pushes the book off his lap. Last time Dean had tried to talk like this, they’d been in a hotel room, and there’s been a convenient place to sit, on the bed across from Cas where Dean was close enough to touch but not close enough to be tempted. Here in Cas’ room, there’s only the space on the bed next to him.

Dean remains standing.

After a brief moment of consideration, Cas stands up too.

“What would you like to talk about, Dean?”

Dean frowns, because the words sound different, somehow. They sound heavier, careful, like they’re dragging Cas down, maybe, and he continues to frown until he realizes how fucking insane his own brain sounds and he shakes his head. “So, uh,” he says, trying to gather his thoughts, figure out how to say what he wants to say, “everything alright?”

Cas’ brow furrows as he squints at Dean. “Yes.”

That should be the end of it really. Ask your question, get an answer, done. Usually Dean would be satisfied. Except Dean’s not. He hasn’t spent an entire life honing his instincts to ignore them, and there’s something niggling in the back of his brain, something telling him to stay put.

“You sure?” he presses. “You’ve been acting kind of off ever since the cage.”

“Actually,” Cas says, and his shoulders make an aborted movement Dean swears was going to be a shrug, which, okay. “I suppose I should tell you now rather than later.”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What?” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Did you get a lead on Amara? You give me ten minutes, I can grab Sam and we can head out.”

“No, Dean,” Cas says, and the look he’s giving him is almost one of pity. “I’m leaving and I’m not coming back.”

Dean feels like the hardest punch he’s ever received in his life has been landed to his gut, the air rushing out of him in a thankfully silent gasp. “Why the hell not?” he demands, because anger is the only thing that’s going to save him here.

“I realized something, after the cage,” Cas muses. Dean searches his face desperately for some sign that this is Cas’ fucked up idea of a joke, or that this is something he’s being forced to do, but there is none, and he can only listen as Cas continues, “after you sent me after Amara, alone, and after you allowed Lucifer to beat me senseless.” Here is a wounded look, one Dean recognizes well but hasn’t seen displayed so openly on Cas’ face since a time when shadows of flaming holy oil had danced across it. “You are incapable of loving anyone, Dean. It’s no wonder that everyone you attempt to care about leaves you.”

The words drop like stones to the floor, heavy with the weight of the truth behind them. It’s been a long established pattern that anyone he holds close – Bobby, Charlie, Benny – will die because of him, because of his constant fucking up. If he really cared about Cas he’d let him go without any argument, would even be relieved that Cas had finally come to his senses. Except Dean has always been a selfish bastard, and somewhere along the way he’d stopped trying to push Cas away, had started pulling him in even closer.

“You sure that’s what you want?” he croaks.

Cas studies him for a brief moment. “I used to be in love with you,” he says quietly. “But then I realized undeserving you are. So yes, I’m sure.” Dean barely has time to register, his mind racing to process Cas’ words as heart beats furiously against what feels like his constricting ribcage. Cas takes a step forward and smiles slightly.

“Dean,” he says calmly, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “This could be a good thing.”

Dean barely had time to glance down, to comprehend that the hand is there, before he’s yanked himself away, the gun that’s always tucked into his waistband out and pointing steadily at Cas’ heart. Because this was wrong. Because Cas hadn’t touched the right shoulder.

It’s not like it was something Dean consciously kept track of, but after having the mark of some guy’s palm burned into your skin, you tended to remember where it had been. Cas always seemed to remember too. It was always his left shoulder that he clutched. It’s a stupid thing to remember, but Dean does.

In the split second it takes for Dean to have his gun out, the expression of befuddlement on Cas’ face slowly melts away to amusement, and he wonders how he could have possibly missed the devil wearing his best friend’s face.

“Now what gave me away?” Ca—Lucifer asks, holding his hands up in mock surrender, like Dean’s gun isn’t about as terrifying as a squirt gun to him. His eyes flick to Dean’s shoulder, and he sees recognition dawn in those achingly familiar eyes. “Ah. I forget the memories are mirrored,” he sighs. “Just so we’re clear for next time, the left shoulder is Castiel’s special love-making shoulder, correct?”

“What the fuck,” Dean growls lowly, and he’s actually pretty damn proud that his voice is almost as steady as his hand, “what the fuck are you doing in Cas?”

Lucifer gives an exaggerated shrug and grins. “Taking my new ride out for a spin?” he suggests. “Still not as smooth as Sam of course, but I am rather impressed with the upgrade Castiel has provided me over my last model.”

“Get the fuck out of him.”

“Now we all know that’s not going to happen,” Lucifer rolls his eyes and Dean’s trigger finger itches. “Instead of making ridiculous requests, maybe you should try some that are a little more manageable.”

Dean frowns. Panic and fear have cleared his head, the self-loathing and heartache that had been rolling and crashing over him just moments before temporarily forgotten. “Like?”

“Like?” Lucifer repeats. He clucks his tongue. “I’ll never understand how you Winchesters have managed to survive this long. I’m wrapped all snug and tight around Castiel’s grace, Dean,” he shivers. “Makes me all tingly. No questions? Or have I already told you everything you were curious about?”

“You were lying,” Dean bites out. “It’s what you do.”

“You didn’t think I was lying when I was Castiel,” Lucifer points out, raising an eyebrow. He rocks back on his heels and smiles wide. “I couldn’t make this up if I tried. What a mess you’ve made of poor Castiel. You know, he’s kind of ticked I told you so bluntly, but really he’s relieved. He’s wanted to do that for a long time.”

Dean knows what the answer is, but he asks it anyway. It’s like he can’t help it, like he needs to hear, if only to confirm what his mind is already telling him. “Tell me what?”

“How he used to love you,” Lucifer tilts his head. “How that changed when he realized what a colossal screw up you are, how undeserving you are to have anyone care about you.” He chuckles. “Of course, I could be playing two truths and a lie, but then,” he smirks, “where’s the lie?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know if there is a lie. The vice like grip around his heart has returned, squeezing, choking, and even as Lucifer steps closer, in that oh so familiar body that Dean has fantasized countless times about, it begins to race.

“You’re thinking this is your fault,” Lucifer murmurs. “You’re right. If only you’d told Castiel how you feel, he wouldn’t have felt the need to pull this self-sacrificing bullshit.” The devil sighs dramatically. “But he learned from the best, didn’t he? Or the worst. Poor Castiel. He can’t seem to look at his memories of you quite like I can. Guess that makes me special.”

Dean shoots the gun.

Lucifer looks down at the stain of blood slowly seeping across the chest of Cas’ white dress shirt with an annoyed expression. “Rude,” he admonishes.

“So help me,” Dean says lowly, malice dripping from every word. “You’re not keeping him. Even if it kills me. I’m getting you out of there.”

Lucifer smiles slowly, a smile that sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. “Even if you manage that,” he says softly. “What will you have to come back to?”

Dean raises the gun again, but Lucifer is already gone, and Dean whirls, searching, spotting the trench coat still abandoned on the chair in the corner before rushing out into the hallway.

He has to tell Sam. They have to get out of here, now that Lucifer knows where the bunker is. They have to save Cas.

He tries not to dwell on what Lucifer had told him, because there’s no point. He knows he’s worthless. He knows he’s hurt Cas more times than can be counted, more times than can be forgivable. He doubts Lucifer was telling the truth about Cas loving him, and if he does, it doesn’t matter anyway. Dean had already fucked up. The devil was riding Cas, all because Dean couldn’t give the guy a little appreciation once in a while.

He swallows down the self-loathing and the bile coating his throat, his stomach sick with worry and disgust at himself. He calls for Sam.

They have to save Cas, if only so the angel can get as far away from him as possible.


End file.
